


O Domine

by hiraethy



Category: American Horror Story: Asylum, The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraethy/pseuds/hiraethy
Summary: Monsignor Timothy Howard is sent to give Lenny Belardo an admonition.Too bad that Belardo fears no one but God.





	1. I

“Monsignor Howard.” The man is tall and handsome. A fact that Lenny did not expect.

Timothy Howard's looks are not those of an average Monsignor. He has brown hair, wide shoulders and hazel eyes.

Eyes capable of gathering the skeptic to prayer, Lenny bets. Eyes that desperate times need.

Hazel is both the brown of the wood burnt for warmth and the green of the ancestral forests. Hazel is a warm colour.

But the Monsignor's eyes are not warm at all.

“Your Holiness.” He says kneeling and kissing his ring.

His voice is mild, accommodating. Fake. It already makes Lenny fiercely annoyed.

Plus, he's been observing everything since when he came into the room, like he was studying the place. Planning what to do with it once it was his turn, maybe.

Ambition, the monster.

“What brings you here, Monsignor Howard?”

“Have I not been announced, your Holiness?”

“You have been. I want to hear it from you.”

“They send me as an ambassador.”

“Ambassador? Are we at war?”

“If you will accept me, Holiness, we won't be.” 

Lenny stills. Then nods, intrigued.

Monsignor Howard's gaze becomes darker. “My _senders_ couldn't take your declarations so passionless as you thought they would. My duty is to discuss your recent actions, included the position of your collaborators, such as Cardinal Spencer and Sister Mary-”

“They stay where they are. All of them. I make clear at instant that you have no power over me or my delegates. I would hate to waste your time, Monsignor.”

“My senders are not of the same opinion. I _hope_ that we will come to an actual discourse, Your Holiness.”

The pope stays silent. Then talks, smiling. Almost laughing.

“Leave the Vatican, Monsignor.”

“I can't and I won't, Holiness.”

The pope sighs. “What else brings you here?”

“Faith.”

“Faith?”

“My faith and my passion in saving the Holy Mother Church.”

“From me? I am offended.”

“From actions that could deteriorate the already weakened position we hold in the world. Holiness. I would never dare deny you the respect you deserve.”

“Another American in the Holy See.” He observes grinning. “This could be the Apocalypse coming.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsignor Howard plots and envies.  
> Belardo takes no shit.

It's a sunny afternoon when the Pope summons Monsignor Howard to his office.

A huge, clean, white office. Howard wants it so bad it's ridiculous.

His mind has been occupied by one thought and one only in months: the Young Pope could have been him, not Belardo, him. Not Lenny Belardo, with his blue eyes and his cruel, icy grin. So young, and already a Pope.

Ambition has consumed Timothy since the end of the conclave. Now, in the white light of the Apostolic Palace it is stronger than ever. But reason cools his thoughts somehow: he has time. Belardo is a prodigy: someone calls him a miracle. To Monsignor Howard he has always been the Antichrist.

The doors of the office are opened to him. He steps in to find Belardo sitting at his writing desk. “You summoned me, Your Holiness?”

“I did, monsignor.” Says the Pope, smiling mildly. “I know why you are here.”

The Monsignor frowns. “I am visiting to assist and give you advice, Holiness.”

“Monsignor, I know who sent you.”

“Holiness?”

“Monsignor.” Beat. “Timothy.” A grin appears on the young pope's lips. “Who do you think I am?”

The room is flooded by silence.

White vest, blue eyes.

Black suit, white collar, hazel eyes.

“Who do you think you're fooling, with your cunning and plotting against me?”

“Your Holiness-”

“Be quiet at least, Monsignor. I know of you and your brief alliance with Voiello against me. Too bad Voiello is not a creature capable of such deals. Not anymore. When you speak to your senders, and I don't want to know names nor facts- When you will speak to them, because you _will_ , you will make clear that your presence here is _irrelevant_.” Beat. “Because- I own you, Timothy. You are a member of the Church and you respond to God. But first, on this earth, you respond to me. I own you. Your body, and your soul. Your mouth, your lungs and your ass. I _own_ your soul. You are not their pawn. You are mine, to do as I please. You think you can do whatever you want inside these walls. You may be their man of Providence. But I am the man of Providence chosen _by_ _God._ ”

The Pope narrows his eyes. “So show me what you've got.”


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsignor Howard hears dirty rumors about him and the Pope.  
> He finds out that Lenny Belardo spread them himself.

 

Lenny Belardo steps into the confessional.

“Holiness.” The voice he knows well comes weak to his ears. Yet its owner cannot hide the anger within it.

“Monsignor. A peculiar place, the one you choose to meet. Very symbolic.”

“Holiness, what in the heavens have you done?”

The Monsignor's face is almost concealed by the perforated wooden panel of the confessional. Yet Lenny Belardo can clearly see his woe. His eyes are more brown than green now, slightly teary.

“I am doing everything necessary.”

“Why, Your Holiness. Why are you making up and spreading such things.”

“Because you wanted war, Monsignor Howard. And I gave it to you.”

“You just confused your people. You look like a hypocrite. You talk against such things and then-” The Monsignor takes a deep breath. “Are you not scared?”

“Of what?”

“Slander.”

“I am the Pope, Timothy. I can endure. And I will defend myself with no end, calling God by my side if I have to. Because I will speak the truth when I will say I didn't lie with you.”

The Monsignor stays still and quiet for some instants. Then he sighs and abandons his forehead against the wooden panel. Lenny can feel his cool breath through the holes in the wood.

“The Cardinals. The other Monsignors. They all think it. They are convinced of it. They didn't even give me- _us_ , the benefit of the doubt.”

“Your senders' technique wasn't terrible. It was just a little naive. They sent you because you are cunning enough, and not that farsighted to calculate their moves before they decide them. They sent you because you have charisma and are good looking. They had a handsome man with a low voice who shared their ideas.”

“You are saying that they sent me because I am pretty and stupid, Holiness.”

“If it's simpler to you, yes.”

“They don't trust me anymore. When you call me to your rooms, when I am invited for dinner or for a walk. They all think we are- That we do-” The Monsignor sighs again, his eyes desolate. He closes them, clenches his jaw. “It's because of this that you kiss me like that when we salute in front of others?” he feels the kisses of the Holy father linger on his cheeks as he speaks.

And all those gazes and touches. Of course.

“It's the small details that convinced them- the Cardinals and the others.” Explains frankly Lenny Belardo. “Prejudices work well on us, Monsignor. We are two handsome, unhappy young men. They think we get along. They think our vision of the world is the same. If they only knew.” The young Pope shakes his head. The Monsignor lifts his head and their gazes meet. “If they only knew how fiercely you bite and scratch to defend your idea of the Catholic Church from me.” The Pope lowers his head, leans his forehead against the wooden panel, mirroring the other man, who mutters: “I'll leave.”

“Now? I don't think this is a good idea. I must suggest you don't leave the Vatican for now, Monsignor.”

Timothy Howard doesn't look away.

He doesn't respond either.

 


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenny Belardo sets the rules.

“As lame as it sounds, I admire you.”

“There's no reason you shouldn't.”

Timothy Howard almost rolls his eyes to this. “I mean- I appreciate your technique.”

The Pope looks at him, intrigued. “What do you mean by that, Monsignor Howard?”

“If I have to be defied, I am honored to succumb to an enemy like you.”

Azure fire lights up the stone cold face of the pope. “I am not your enemy, Monsignor.” He stands up, blue anger and white dominance. “How _dare_ you call me an enemy.”

Monsignor Timothy Howard wages a war within himself.

Insolence wins.

“How should I address to you then, Your Holiness? Enlighten me,” he spits out of his mouth, “What else are you to me?”

The pope moves a few firm steps around the writing desk. He stands before the Monsignor, all pure and white and holy.

Timothy Howard kneels, his soul black and his face pale. He kisses the ring on the hand that Pius XIII offers him.

It is not the first time he does it. This time hurts him more than ever.

“I am the Holy Father. _Your_ Holy Father. I thought you knew. You will call me that, Timothy.” The pope cups the Monsignor's face with his ringed hand. His touch lingers in a soft and dry caress.

“Have I enlightened you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes-?”

“Yes, Holy Father.”

The young Pope smiles. “You good, mild lamb.”

And in his mind Timothy Howard bites hard on that hand, he does it so fiercely to draw blood. Someone could see it in his glare.

And the Pope is not just anyone. He sees the anger in the Monsignor's stormy eyes, and he smiles brighter.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to popular belief, Lenny Belardo is no saint.

The Holy See slumbers quietly as Monsignor Howard steps through its halls. His heart is throbbing so fast he feels like it's going to rip his chest apart and spread his insides on the pristine floor of the Apostolic Palace.

Outside him, pure silence.

He just smoked half a pack of cigarettes but it isn't even remotely enough to relax him.

He's alone. The Swiss Guards are nowhere to be seen. Strange.

He stops in the middle of the corridor. He draws in a long breath. “God, give me the will. The strength,” he mutters.

He feels shame. Maybe someone like him should not call God by his side, not there, not in front of Lenny Belardo's room. Not at this hour of the night.

He steps forward and knocks.

The door opens, and Pope Pius XIII appears, neat as always, in his white pajamas.

“Did they see you?”

“At the entrance. I couldn't avoid it.”

The Pope invites him in, seeming pleased about the fact.

Timothy looks around. There's a single bed and some other pieces of furniture that look simple but expensive. The room is not big at all and is scarcely illuminated. A bit eerie.

“Where are the Guards?”

“I sent them home.”

Timothy's heart rate starts growing faster again. His mind racing. He turns towards the Pope. “You can do this?”

“I am the Pope.”

Timothy Howard watches him. “Why did you summon me this time?”

“I need to create suspicion.”

Of course.

Lenny Belardo is not simply trying to convince everybody, he is also spitting in the face of the world. In the face of his dear ones, of his believers. Of Timothy.

“What am I to do?” mutters the Monsignor.

Belardo walks to him. He reaches out to Howard's white collar and takes it between two fingers. He pulls it out. It makes an ungodly sound as it falls to the ground, a _wrong_ , unnatural sound to the Monsignor.

“I need you to undress.”

Howard lets that sink in for a moment.

“Don't think whatever you're thinking.” The Pope steps to his bed and uncovers it. “You can’t sleep in here fully clothed.”

Howard's eyes are probably vomiting hatred and anger, because when Belardo looks at him he is captured by the sight.

“You know, the people taking care of me. They will notice you were here.”

Timothy breaths in deeply. “There's no need to explain, Holiness.”

“See, you're handsome _and_ intelligent.”

Why in the heavens did Timothy accept this task? Why did he take that airplane to Rome?

It could have been him, not Belardo, him. Oh, the things he would do if he was granted the power. Surely not this kind of things.

He removes his shoes and socks first, and now he's barefoot and kneeling before the man he despises the most. He removes his jacket, shirt, trousers. The black covering his person gone, only the pale core remaining. Almost naked before the Lord, and before the man he hates.

The Pope wordlessly invites him to bed and Timothy Howard crawls into its white, fragrant jaws, the bed where the Pope spends his nights.

He reluctantly settles on the mattress and can't avoid coming in contact with Belardo's clothed body.

He pulls away.

The bed is unbelievably tiny and the sheet covering them slips away from him. Timothy doesn't know where to put his hands, his arms, his legs. This is all wrong. He shivers, mainly because of the thoughts he has.

“Are you cold, Monsignor?”

“I am not.”

“I could never live in peace knowing that you caught a cold because of me.”

Belardo lies still on his back and watches Howard crawling back towards him, until their bodies are forced to meet again in an awkward touch. Howard is pressed to the Pope from his chest to his feet, he feels warm and rigid underneath his clothes. Apparently, the Pope works out. Timothy Howard almost winces at the discovery.

“Sleep tight, Monsignor.”

Silence.

“Monsignor, did you hear what I said?”

“I wish You a good night too. Holy Father.” He lies.

The Pope shifts a little on the mattress, and Timothy can perfectly picture his grin even in the small light of the room.

For Monsignor Howard it is a long night with few sleep and no dreams.

When he wakes definitively it's still dark outside. It's the first hours of the new day and silence reigns still.

He feels like suffocating trapped on the Pope's body. Hate overwhelms him, and it becomes so unbearable, that he can't lie there any longer. He shifts to leave the bed when he suddenly stills.

If someone still thinks that Lenny Belardo is a saint or someone otherworldly, here's Timothy's proof: he is flesh and blood.

Timothy Howard pushes the body of the other man away.

Of course it's not happened because of his presence. Even Belardo is human and such things happen. It's nature.

The man is still fast asleep and Timothy Howard is about to crawl out of that bed and out of the Apostolic Palace, take an airplane ticket and just go away, far from that little room. When suddenly he stills. He watches Belardo's firm, icy features and it's now that he envies him the most.

Hate, the devourer.

He takes a deep breath. He crawls back under the warm sheets. He hesitates some instants, but then finds the motivation. He has to. For the love of everything that is holy, he has to.

He doesn't call God by his side. As a matter of fact, he hopes God won't be seeing. But he can't help praying the Virgin and hoping that she’ll forgive. 

_Ave Maria gratia plena Dominus tecum benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus._

He tries not to think. This man has too much, he says to himself. No one would dare, but someone must take something from him. That will show him, thinks Timothy Howard as his hands crawl to warm, hidden spots of a foreign skin. He closes the space between them- and he takes the only thing he can take from Lenny Belardo.

_Ave Maria gratia plena Dominus tecum benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus-_

The latter snaps his eyes open. Takes an instant to realise what is happening and the next second he's weakly pushing Timothy away, his body not responding well and not strong enough to throw the other out of bed yet.

Timothy crawls back, grabs him firmer, watches him straight in the eye as he proceeds, and the mouth of the Pope snaps open and his entire body freezes, surprise overwhelming him. A sound emerges from his lungs and crawls with fatigue through his throat. Surprise, pleasure, anger. Before it becomes too loud, Timothy puts his free hand onto the other's mouth. There's no violence in all of this, but Belardo's body reacts. He moves the hand away from his face and puts his arms between himself and the Monsignor shielding his body and pushing the other away. Not so persuasively, though.

Timothy crawls on top of Lenny and grabs a hold of him.

Belardo attempts to jerk away once more, but Timothy becomes slow and firm in his strokes, their eyes meet, and it's something biblical to Timothy, because it's the first time he sees that glare coming from the Pope, a glare of resignation, of _surrender_ , together with rage and delight. That look in his enemy's eyes hits something within Timothy Howard he didn't know existed.

_Ave Maria gratia plena,_ echoes perpetually in his mind, so loud it reaches his lips, _Dominus tecum- benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus._ _Sancta Maria mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae._

Lenny Belardo lets him do, and some moments later he spends himself into Howard's hand.

The latter crawls back to the mattress and sits, slightly stiffened, his breath heavy, his heart throbbing faster than it had done earlier that night.

_Amen_.

Lenny Belardo lies still some minutes, looking at the ceiling, breathing in and out. Then he stands up, with his white pajamas disheveled and wrinkled, and goes to the bathroom.

Some minutes later he returns with new, identical clothes and the fresh smell of soap on his skin.

Timothy imitates him.

He walks to the other room grateful that his mild hardness has gone. When he returns Lenny Belardo is lying still, like nothing happened. Monsignor Howard knows better.

He walks to the bed and settles underneath the blanket again.

“Howard.”

Silence.

“Consider yourself politically and clerically dead.”


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belardo puts the situation to use.

Monsignor Howard sits in front of Pope Belardo together with Voiello, during one of the many sunny mornings they have in the Vatican.

It is a pity to spend a day like this indoors. Timothy escapes the walls of the Apostolic Palace every now and then, to find sanctuary in the gardens. It is only in places like these that he can really enjoy the Vatican. He can't stand the administration isles and the museums have been making him uncomfortable lately: all those saints. All those martyrs. All those righteous ones. Timothy just doesn't feel like fitting in.

“It's always a pleasure having you here, Monsignor.” Is saying the Pope, smoking as usual.

 “It's an honor for me to be summoned, Holiness.”

Once their usual procession of fake regards finishes, Belardo smiles. It is terrifying.

Voiello listens and watches in awkward silence.

The Pope stands up and walks around the writing desk. “I heard you smoke, Monsignor.”

Howard nods, frowning. It's the first time they meet after that night. He lowers his eyes to the wooden top of the table. “I do, Holiness.”

Belardo's eyes get sharper. “What a lovely vice you got there, Monsignor.” He says teasing, eyeing Timothy from head to toe. “Luckily it's one I share.”

Voiello looks ready to jump out of the window at any moment.

Same is for Timothy.

 “You, a vicious person, Holiness?” He mutters.

The Pope hands him a pack of smokes. “Would you like a cigarette, Monsignor Howard?”

Voiello frowns at this. “Weren't You the only one who could smoke in here, Holiness?”

Timothy stiffens. Meets Belardo's icy glare.

“Monsignor Howard is a special guest.”

Timothy takes one cigarette between his index finger and his thumb, like a kid who never used one and doesn't know what to do next.

He wants to ask Belardo if he is sure about this, but he renounces, because the Pope takes the cigarette from him with a lingering touch of fingers and slides it between Timothy's lips, already parted to speak. He doesn't get his lighter, and Timothy understands. He stands up, gets closer, touches the end of the lit cigarette with the tip of his unlit one and inhales.

Voiello almost rolls his eyes. “Holiness, may I ask You if my presence is really necessary?”

The Pope fakes a surprised glare. “Oh yes, Eminence, you are dismissed if you want.”

Timothy Howard watches as Voiello flees the room. Once they are alone in the office, he turns towards the Pope who is now sitting on his chair, putting out his cigarette and taking another one, getting his lighter out of the drawer.

The Monsignor sits. “What’s all this?”

“You looked tense. I thought nicotine could make it better.”

Monsignor Howard remembers about the cigarette between his fingers. Gets rid of the ash on the tip and takes a long drag very similar to a frustrated sigh.

Belardo watches the Monsignor slowly exhale. He leans forward. “Did you see Voiello's face? He's down to business now, guaranteed.”

“What is all this?” Asks the Monsignor once more.

“Set-up, I guess.” Belardo gets closer. “I thought you were down for this kind of stuff.” He teases. “Well. Maybe you prefer acts of a more, let’s say, physical nature.”

Monsignor Howard's jaw clenches and he swallows, his throat as dry as St. Peter's Square at Ferragosto.

“How are you doing, Timothy?” asks Pius XIII, something morbid in his tone. “How is it? Praying everyday nevertheless?”

“My conscience is pristine.”

“Is it?”

“Everything I've done and I'll do is for God and the Church.”

Belardo inhales on the cigarette, his eyes hooded and questioning. “Do you think God cares about you getting me off?”

“I don't know if it affects God directly. To be honest I hope it doesn't, maybe. But I think it affects _you_.”

Belardo snickers softly and shakes his head. “So cheeky and insolent, Monsignor. I suggest you to confess. I imagine you already have a lot to say.”

“You haven't, Holiness?”

Belardo pulls out the same fake surprise he used before with Voiello. “ _I_ didn't do anything, Monsignor. I was merely lying in my bed.”

Howard's glare could kill a man. Any man except the Pope.

“Would you help me, Monsignor?” Says Belardo leaning forward with his unlit cigarette between his lips.

Howard obeys, and the touch of his cigarette gives life to the other.

The Pope's lighter lies between them in the middle of the table. There’s a picture of Rialto on it and a red writing that says “Venice”. It looks lame and cheap, and doesn’t fit the white-gold, sophisticated aesthetic of Pope Pius XIII.

Everything about Lenny Belardo makes Monsignor Howard angry.


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsignor Howard’s fighting spirit begins to crack.

“How lucky I am to meet you here. Come walk with me, Monsignor.”

It’s late afternoon. The wind blows gently through the tender green leaves of the Vatican Gardens. Timothy Howard closes his eyes as the golden, warm sunshine baptizes him. No place on Earth is safe until Lenny Belardo walks its ground.

“So what I heard is true. You really enjoy the gardens.”

There’s not many wandering the park at this hour, there’s just a group of nuns working on the flowers and bushes, cutting them into shape, taking care of their buds, watering the soft fragrant soil. As they walk past them the nuns don’t stare- they just salute respectfully and continue their work. This doesn’t make Monsignor Howard feel less observed.

“Any news from overseas?”

Howard’s chest starts hurting. The Pope knows very well the answer to that question, but apparently, he just _adores_ twisting the knife. He smiles. “Barely any, I imagine. Have you noticed that they still haven’t spoken up or denounced you- _us_? Clever move. I expected some turmoil, I must admit.”

They approach a bench under a huge, gorgeous basswood tree. Monsignor Howard sits as he absently gazes at the tender grass beneath him.

“They don’t know for sure if the rumors are authentic, so they prefer staying in their lane.” is saying the Pope. “Do you understand what I am implying, Monsignor?”

Timothy does, unfortunately. They fear him. And now, just now, Timothy Howard understands why. He feels a sting of hopelessness and rage. They threw him to the beast hiding between the Vatican walls and now Timothy is inside them, alone, not an ally in the world. He thinks about the front pages of the tabloids he eyed during an outing wearing civilian clothes. Why did he listen to his senders? Why did he come to Rome? What was he hoping to find here?

Regret, the destroyer.

Before Monsignor Howard can lift his head, Belardo takes his face in his hand, gazing straight into his eyes.

“You don’t sleep much lately, do you?”

Monsignor Howard doesn’t flinch. It’s true, his nights have been restless and, one could say- _busy_ , recently.

“Do me a favor Monsignor, take care of yourself.”

His touch is lasting a little too much but Howard does nothing to pull away. He can sense the nuns around them remaining still for some instants. Observing out of the corner of their eyes.

“I don’t know exactly what you have been up to, nor where you go when you leave the Holy See- suit yourself. But you are of no use to me all sick and lost in perdition.”

Timothy leans slightly into the touch.

“It’s a strenuous period, Holiness.”

The Pope is about to move his hand but Timothy Howard leans deeper and places a kiss on his skin, their eyes locked the whole time.

The nuns gather their tools and leave, walking quietly away into the leaves flooded by the last, gentle light of the day. If they would pay attention to their gazes they would instantly grasp that the Pope and the Monsignor are not having a moment at all.

“You’re becoming really good with our staging, Howard.”

“You too. Holiness.”

Belardo has become quite accustomed to Howard’s glare. A glare that has unlearned Christian charity and respect towards the Pope and shamelessly wishes him ruin. Belardo enjoys it a little too much.


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothy Howard never thought he could refuse such a thing.

“Are you satisfied with my proposal, Monsignor?” says the Pope before taking a sip of Cherry Coke Zero. Both the sight of the Cherry Coke at 7.30 a.m. and his smile make Timothy feel sick. “How does that sound?”

It sounds terrifying.

Timothy Howard finishes chewing his food and attempts to swallow.

“Monsignor?”

“I don’t know what to say,” mutters Timothy, once he manages to choke down.

“According to an Italian proverb, silence means consent.”

Timothy takes a sip of coffee. “I don’t think I am suited to be appointed Bishop, Holiness.”

“Weren’t you an ambitious one? I suspect you aim to the Cardinalate, at the very least.” Something wicked and malicious hangs in the air between them. “And to the Papacy, maybe.”

He will become Pope over Pius XIII’s dead body- Timothy deduces. Lord, would that be glorious.

Howard _does_ dream big, in fact. He dreams of white halls, golden garments, jubilant crowds. But he doesn’t want to gain these things like _this_.

“What if I refuse?”

The Pope sighs. “Why are you all like this? If you refuse, then I will be forced to exercise my power.”

Howard feels the grip around his throat tighten.

“Why are you so worried, Timothy? You have only changed employer. And now you’re even taking advantage from it. Wasn’t a higher rank in the Clergy what you wanted?”

 _Not like this_. Timothy can already imagine the gossip and the rumors, the calumny and the glances.

“I wouldn’t make a rightful Bishop.”

“No one is.”

“I wouldn’t even make a good one.”

“You don’t need to be, as long as you’re mine.”

“I refuse to think of myself as _yours_.”

“You better get used to it.”

“I _refuse_.”

Belardo rolls his eyes. “Howard, for the love of _God_ , it’s a little too late for this, isn’t it? You should have started your rebellion _earlier_. Courage failed you and now that you’re back against the wall, just now, you decide to show your fangs. A savior of the future of the Church? Howard, you are an opportunist who can’t even save himself. And you don’t seem to grasp the simple fact that _I_ am the future of your beloved Church.”

“ _I swear to God_ , Belardo,” Monsignor Howard gets up from the table, leaning on his hands. The plates and mugs produce a screeching rattle. “I will have you resigned.”

 “Howard, are you retarded or just a dreamer? You can’t do _shit_ in the Vatican!” Cries the Pope. “I used to appreciate your fighting spirit. I _really_ did. But now that you’ve been exposed you’re beginning to annoy me. So, _know your place,_ do as you’re told and shut up.”

Timothy Howard puts himself together. He turns tail and leaves the room. His dry, angry steps echo through the halls while he walks. Making his way to the outside he bypasses waiters, nuns, cardinals and a group of officials who eye him from a distance.

He steps outside and stops by the wall.

“Hanno litigato?”

“Non mi sembra soddisfatto.”

“Ho sentito che lo faranno Cardinale.”

“ _Direttamente_?”

“No, non possono.”

“Sei sicuro?”

“Non c’è ancora un Camerlengo ufficiale.”

“Insomma, penso che _ci sia_ , a questo punto.”[1]

Howard snorts mirthlessly.

He doesn’t understand that much of Italian but there’s no doubt about their speculations.

Were he not involved, he would find the situation hilarious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] “They argued?”

“He doesn’t seem satisfied.”

 “I heard he will be appointed Cardinal.”

“Directly?”

“No, they can’t do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“There still isn’t an official Camerlengo.”

“Well, I think there is, by now.”


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothy Howard is given an opportunity.

“Bishop Howard? A word, please.”

The man who approached Timothy on the terrace of the Apostolic Palace is in his late fifties and has grey hair and deep, brown eyes. Timothy knows very well who the man is. “Weiβ.”

The Cardinal blinks at him, maybe disappointed with not being properly saluted. “The soutane suits you really well.”

The former Monsignor takes his pack of Dunhill and offers one to the Cardinal, who eyes him and playfully states, “You know I don’t smoke, Howard.”

“I don’t make assumptions,” he says while lighting up a cigarette.

Weiβ turns towards the nice view of Saint Peter’s Square while a little smirk appears on his face. “Are you enjoying your promotion?”

Howard takes a drag and exhales. “I am.” A puffy white fog appears and disappears almost instantly.

“You look tired. I bet these months have been hard, Howard.”

“Very.”

“I heard a joke some time ago. Since you spend most of your time here, people started saying that your actual diocese is in the Vatican, and not overseas.”

“I go where I am needed.”

“Of course, of course.” Weiβ nods deeply. “You are a mere expression of the will of our Holy Father and of God, like any of us. You can do little about your situation. Am I right?”

The neo-appointed Bishop stills and eyes the man out of the corner of his eye as he continues with his speech.

“I wasn’t sure about you in the beginning, I must admit. I preferred to stay silent and observe, see how the situation would evolve. Now that I understand and my mind is made up I think it would be appropriate to talk to you directly.” The man pauses. Then looks up to Timothy and states loud and clear: “I know what is happening.”

Timothy sighs. “Weiβ. Reporting me or the Pope will have no effect. Do you think you are the first one?”

The older man watches him straight in the eye. “Bishop Howard, please, hear me out. I know what is _really_ happening.”

It takes Timothy some instants to process. The man’s gaze is calm and stays upon Timothy without a hint of judgement.

“You don’t believe me and Belardo are balls deep into each other?”

The Austrian doesn’t wince even slightly at the profanity, and his response comes firm and steady. “I don’t.”

“Then, you would be the first one.”

“I am _not_ , Bishop Howard, I guarantee.”

“What are you implying with this?”

“I want to offer my help.”

Timothy stays silent.

“What is happening is not right,” continues the Cardinal. “We don’t like the games this Pope is playing. What I am saying is that I am influent, Howard. I have trustworthy clergymen who are very disappointed and who would follow me, _us_ , if we moved against him. Wasn’t this your original plan? You were very brave, but alone. And you are young. Belardo is all these things but he was luckier, and now he’s on top. I can pull you out of this but you have to cooperate.”

The Bishop’s hazel eyes wander into the distance, his features still.

“Would you be ready to take appropriate action? Because I am offering you the tools to do it, Howard. Now or never.”

Not a word comes from Timothy. He looks down on the crowds of tourists moving through the square like tiny ants.

Weiβ imitates him. “I have some years of experience, as you can tell, and I met many, many people. I know those like _him_ and I know those like you. I know you want to make a difference. And I know he’s the Holy Father but something tells me he’s nowhere near holy.”

“None of us is.”

The Austrian turns facing Timothy. “You don’t have to feel guilt or shame. The Saints were martyrs. But you don’t necessarily need to become one. It would be a shame. What do you think?”

Timothy Howard thinks that right now he needs another cigarette.


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cardinal Weiβ’ sudden resignations and retreat cause worldwide surprise. Howard becomes bait for Belardo to use.

It’s nighttime and Timothy Howard is sitting in a pub not far from Parco Adriano, scrolling his phone up and down, reading and studying the same New York Times article for the third time. He finally abandons his phone on the wooden table and takes a sip of his second J&B.

As the fiery liquid makes his way through, a white figure appears out of the corner of his eye. As the figure gets closer, it leans slightly towards the phone, where the Times app is still on. The man reads some lines of the piece, then affirms with a playful note, “Botswana will suit Weiβ better.”

Lenny Belardo manifests before him in all his glory and in an all-white tracksuit. Too bad that Timothy is the only one in the pub who can recognize his so-called greatness.

Howard fights the urge to sigh.

Belardo sits with him. Their eyes lock. “The press is unsettled, isn’t it? They brood a lot.”

“Nobody ever resigned cardinalship and left for Africa from one day to the next.”

“It’s uncommon, I agree. A little suspicious. But, you know, if Weiβ wanted to be a missionary _so bad_ , how could I stop him?” asks Lenny, almost smiling.

This time Howard sighs for good. He almost downs the whole drink.

“What do you want, Belardo?”

“Mainly, to check on you. I already told you, you are of no use to me if you’re wasted.”

“I am good.”

Belardo wordlessly scrutinizes the man from head to toe and raises one eyebrow.

“Listen, just tell me what you want,” sighs Howard once again.

Belardo gets comfortable on his chair. “Since you have been cooperative lately, I have a plan involving you.” He locks eyes with Timothy. “Ask Archbishop Renzetti for _help_.”

Timothy Howard doesn’t nod, but understands perfectly.

“Nothing too loud. We need to see if he’s a potential threat. I don’t think he’ll move mountains for you if you reach out, but I want to see _who_ he’ll be talking with once he has gossip to work on.”

Belardo gets no response from Howard. The man keeps staring down at his drink, his expression lost and unfocused.

Lenny leans closer, keeping his voice down. “What you did for me about Weiβ.”

“I didn’t do it for _you_ ,” comes sharp as a razor from Timothy’s lips.

Belardo doesn’t comment on this but his azure eyes speak loud with a cynical, ironic tone.

He then goes on with his speech. “I wouldn’t have seen that one coming if it wasn’t for you, Timothy. I am glad that I- that _we_ were able to root him out in time.” His gaze is piercing, deeply honest this time, but it isn’t enough to alleviate the discomfort on the former Monsignor’s face.

“Leave me,” says Timothy looking away. “Just- leave me alone.”

Lenny leans on the backrest of his chair and smiles mildly. Observes the man in front of him. Howard looks tired and sad, angry and forlorn. His beard is short but is clearly disheveled and there’s dark circles beginning to show under his hazel eyes. He goes well with the suffused lighting and wooden, dented furniture of the bar. “One would never say you’re incognito, Timothy.”

The neo-Bishop looks up to the Pope and whispers: “Leave me the fuck alone, I said.”

The sounds of the pub help filling the gap created by the silence that follows. It is Lenny who finally breaks it. “Don’t desert your duties, Bishop,” he says, going full Pope Pius XIII. “I know you have been for the past days and people are beginning to _talk_. Show your handsome face to the Palace and bring your nice ass into the stupendous office I got you.” He stands up. Takes some steps towards Timothy. “Don’t be too long.”

“Don’t wait up, _honey_ ,” says the former Monsignor, bitter and poisonous.

Belardo leans in and brings Timothy's head closer. “Careful with the insolence,” he whispers. He places a long, chaste kiss on Timothy’s temple. Then he leaves without another word.

Timothy doesn’t need to watch him go.

**Author's Note:**

> im going to hell and i'm saving y'all some seats


End file.
